Self:
I've had a lovely week. Apart from anything else I've tried lawn bowls, which is a great laugh, and in eight hours I'm going windsurfing. The super Engies finally did the lucky bizzo and I managed to stick it to the Knowers for a small part of what the little fuckers owe me. It's hot and sunny and I feel great.
Quakka:
Yeah, well whatever. Weren't you all gloomy guts a couple of weeks back? What was Kipling's line about meeting with triumph and disaster. You'd do well to remember that.
Self:
I prefer Cavafy.
Quakka:
Greek poof? No wonder you'll never have a girlfriend. Do you really think it's healthy to have your emotional state tied so closely to the performance of various cricket teams and to your ability to run a big circle in a slightly shorter time or do press-ups whilst holding dumbells? Jeez, you're hardly solving world hunger here. I'm starting to think you're bipolar.
Self:
Maybe I go through a few gentle mood swings but that doesn't mean I'm mentally unstable.
Quakka:
Have it your way. I'm not the one writing illustrated dialogues with stuffed animals. Anyway don't let it go to your head. You'll be back in London in three weeks in the late February chill, assuming the sharks in the bay don't get you first. And what is it with the pastel tops?
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